If he asks you to dinner, you better say no.
He’ll only break your heart somewhere down the road.
Then the chorus starts.
You’ll be dying to flirt,
But don’t even start.
Watch him ride off into the sunset.
Don’t let him steal your heart.
Take it from me, ladies,
I should know.
If you don’t want to end up living with a stranger,
Don’t date a Texas Ranger.
She draws out the words in that last line. There’s a nice guitar solo, then she starts in with another verse.
He’s gone for weeks while you’re all alone.
He’s hunting bad guys and you’re waitin’ by the phone.
Trust me, ladies, he’s too good to be true.
He’ll be married to his job, not married to you.
Willow sings through the chorus a few more times, and then she’s back in the studio, laughing and basking in the admiration of Bobby Bones.
But my mind is elsewhere.
The comment about waiting by the phone isn’t fair. She’s gone more than I am—I could write a song called “Don’t Date a Country Singer.”
Really, though, it’s the last line: He’ll be married to his job, not married to you. That’s the one that stings. Not because it’s true in the case of Willow and me. Neither of us works nine-to-five, so we’ve had an unconventional relationship from the start. What hurts about the line is that it’s true of my previous relationship.
With Anne.
Willow probably didn’t think anything of that line when she wrote it, just looking for something that rhymed with true, but Anne could have written that autobiographically. In fact, she said as much in her diary, which her mother let me read after Anne died, hoping I’d find some clues to her murder.
Ever since then, I’ve tried not to be that guy. I’ve tried not to be the guy married to his job who lets a good woman slip through his fingers. For the first time since Willow brought up the detective opening at the Nashville Police Department, I think that I should apply.
Five minutes after Willow completes the interview on The Bobby Bones Show, my phone buzzes with an incoming call from her.
“Are you mad?” she says. Despite the good humor in her voice, I can tell she’s anxious to hear what I have to say.
“No,” I say. “I loved it.”
Honestly, the song is harmless enough. But here I was keeping a low profile, and now there’s a song inspired by me that a million people just heard on the radio. I can already hear the other Rangers giving me a hard time about it. And the last thing I need is some perp jawing at me during an arrest about how I need to take better care of my woman.
Willow explains that she had just been messing around during sound check one day, making up lyrics as she went along. Her producer heard it and wanted her to finish the song.
“I didn’t think we’d end up putting it on the album,” she says, “but once we finished, I knew it was going to be my first single.”
“It’s going to be a hit,” I say, and I mean it.
We talk for a while longer. I hadn’t told her yet about my reassignment to Rio Lobo, so I explain that I’m driving across Texas as we speak.
“They shouldn’t have you back on duty this fast,” she says.
I don’t tell her that Kyle is punishing me.
“It will be fine,” I say. “Besides, I need to get out of town for a while before everyone I know gives me shit about being in your song.”
“I’m serious, Rory. Do you think you’re ready to be back on duty?”
“It’s a little town in the middle of nowhere,” I say. “How dangerous could it be?”
Chapter 11
I FIND MYSELF driving on back roads that twist through the rolling hills. I go for miles without seeing another car—just sagebrush and the occasional fenced-off pump jack levering up and down, pulling oil out of the earth. Off to my left is a narrow oasis dotted with big cottonwood trees and shrubs. That’s the route of the namesake of the town, the Rio Lobo, I assume. I can’t see the river, but in these parts, a waterway would be the only explanation for a meandering ribbon of lush vegetation.
Around six o’clock in the evening, the road and the river converge at a little town probably no bigger than a few square miles. I drive clear through and out the other side before I realize I’ve seen the whole thing. There are two stoplights.
I circle back and take a second tour up and down the main roadway. The architecture is a mix of old brick with a distinct Spanish influence (picture the Alamo Mission) and New Mexico–style adobe. The houses are mostly single-story, with shallow roofs and sometimes colorfully painted walls.
I pass by the school, which likely contains every grade—K through twelve. Behind the school are a baseball diamond and a football stadium that don’t look half bad for a town this small. A fenced-in lot holds several school buses, which rural kids probably ride more than two hours a day.
A handful of businesses includes a small grocery store and only a few restaurants. One is called Good Gravy and looks like your typical Texas greasy spoon. A Taste of Texas seems a little nicer. I also see a Tex-Mex place named Rosalia’s. I pass a well-kept bar called Lobo Lizard. The type of place a town dignitary—or what counts for one here—could enjoy a beer alongside a day laborer or a field worker.
There’s a motel with an empty parking lot and a lit-up VACANCY sign with a couple of letters burned out. A tiny adobe post office stands next to a gas station with a mechanic’s garage. I spot a couple of churches, both built in the Spanish style of the early settlers. A pharmacy—a little mom-and-pop place, not a chain—stands next to a small medical center with twenty-four-hour urgent care. The public library is located next to a park with some new-looking playground equipment. I spot a newspaper, the Rio Lobo Record, housed in one of the bigger buildings in town.
I see a McDonald’s, of course, but otherwise the branded world seems to have left the little town alone. The one exception is banks. I count at least five: Wells Fargo, BBVA Compass, Prosperity, PlainsCapital, and Rio Grande Bank and Trust, where Willow and I share an account. There might be more banks than restaurants, which seems odd for a town this size.
Rio Lobo is small, but it’s clean and well maintained. I spot instances of graffiti on fences but no abandoned eyesores. No vacant lots. The occasional man-made arroyo splits off from the river corridor, feeding irrigation throughout the community. The canals are lined with well-worn dirt walking trails. There are plenty of trees, and the lawns are green. For whatever reason—probably oil—Rio Lobo doesn’t seem as cash-strapped as the typical small Texas town.
It’s easy to find the police station, which isn’t much bigger than my two-bedroom house. It shares a gravel parking lot with other municipal buildings: a community center, a senior center, the volunteer fire department.
I pull into the surprisingly busy parking lot. People are filing out of the community center, heading toward their cars. Some of them are dressed up with button-down shirts and bolo ties and sport jackets. A man wearing a tan police uniform with a pistol on one hip and a radio on the other spots me right away and walks over. He probably knows every vehicle in town—and that my truck isn’t from around here.